So the Story Goes
by Memoirs of a Dream
Summary: AU, humans all around. "Why don't people elope more often?" "Probably because they care what people think." "Do they? How boring." Fluffy Ten/Rose nonsense.


_A/N: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This fic was inspired by "May Your Hearts Stay Strong" by Cloud Cult, but it's definitely not required listening to understand. I just liked the basic ideas and ran with them. Also, just saying, this was intended as a writing exercise, not as a serious fic. Don't take it too seriously._

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><p><strong>So the Story Goes<strong>

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><p>John waved a hand at his friend Jack, once again rejecting the offer of alcohol. He sipped his glass of water instead and looked out across the crowded, smoky club. The dance floor, taking up most of the middle of the club, was jam packed with people.<p>

"Hey – look at that girl there," laughed Jack, directing his attention to a corner of the dance floor. John looked. The girl indicated kept missing the beat, but she didn't seem to care, if her blinding smile and the way she tossed her blonde hair was any indication. She looked like she was wearing some sort of formal dress, inelegantly modified to fit in. She stuck out like a sore thumb and she didn't care.

John gulped and scrambled to grab Jack's shot glass. He didn't care what was in it; he just snatched it up and downed it in one shot. He spluttered and gasped at the burn in the back of his throat.

"Easy, tiger. I thought you said you didn't drink."

"I didn't," John answered. "I think I just started, though. I'm going to go talk to her. See you later."

He got up, stumbled as his feet tangled in the wooden stool, and then headed for the dance floor as Jack cackled. The blonde girl stumbled against him – not surprising, he saw now, because she was wearing sandals that looked like they were falling apart. John steadied her automatically, one hand on her waist and the other on her elbow, and held her until she'd found her feet again. She tipped her head back and grinned at him.

"Hey, thanks mate," she laughed. They stood for a few seconds while the dancers pressed in all around them. Only when she cleared her throat did he realize that he'd been staring at her, and still holding her. "Gonna let me go any time soon?"

"Do you want to dance with me?" The words were out before he could think about keeping them in, and John didn't care.

The blonde looked around and shrugged. She still couldn't keep the beat, and she stepped on his feet more often than the floor, and at one point someone bumped him from behind so that he stumbled and almost whacked her with an elbow. It was the most perfect dance he'd ever had. When, in the early hours of the morning, the club scene finally showed signs of clearing out, the two of them left hand in hand.

"I never did catch your name."

"Didn't give it. It's Rose Tyler. Yours?"

"John," he said, allowing himself a shyly hopeful grin in her direction. "John Smith."

"Well, John, John Smith, do you want to come and grab breakfast with me? I'm sure we can find somewhere that's open." The street was still lit by streetlamps; the sun wouldn't be up for hours. She was still in her badly-hemmed dress, he still in his ratty jeans and faded tee-shirt (Jack had been insistent that he come to the club; he hadn't pushed his luck by trying to get John into something more appropriate). Neither of them was even remotely self-conscious as they smiled and held hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I'd love to," he said. "But I didn't bring any money."

"Blimey," she laughed. "You're a cheap date, ain't ya? Don't worry about it; it's on me this time."

They settled into an all-night greasy spoon with chips and bitter tea served the American way. John took one sip and shoved it away, disgusted by the cloying sweetness of the cold beverage - not that he was sure it could be _called_ a beverage, let alone _tea_. They talked about themselves, catching up on the years and years they didn't know each other, because even after a few hours it feels like they should have met a long, long time ago.

"So where was your first kiss, Rose Tyler?" he asked. He took his time saying her name; it was a good name, and perfect for drawing out. It rolled off his tongue in a way that made him think he wanted to say it over and over, just to hear it more.

"Mm." Rose nibbled on a chip and thought about it. "I must'a been about eight, I guess. Me'n my mate Shareen were at the pool and this boy shoved me in the water. Shareen said it was 'cause he liked me, so I chased him down and kissed him."

"What?" John wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't that. He fumbled with his paper chip wrapping (maybe he was a bit drunk – he did end up swiping quite a lot of Jack's vodka, after all) in his surprise and barely managed to keep them from going everywhere. Rose giggled. "That's got to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"What, like you never did anything silly when you were eight?" she challenged. "Come on, then, let's hear some stories."

John thought about it for a good long while. He grinned as he remembered the first time he'd ever gotten stitches, and the grin quickly grew to chuckles and then outright laughter.

"Alright, you win," he admitted. "When I was eight, my guardian – I grew up with a friend of my parents, Sarah Jane her name was – bought these ceramic ice cream bowls. And they _looked_ like they were made out of, you know, the stuff they make cones out of. And I thought, well, why not eat it? Sarah Jane came in and found me covered in blood from the pottery shards and crying because my ice cream had melted and gone everywhere."

Rose was laughing by the end, especially when he showed her the one remaining scar (a tiny nick on his jaw, hardly noticeable even if you were looking for it). She nearly choked on her chips, she was laughing that hard, and seeing her face go red with embarrassment set him off.

As the sun rose, they sat in the hard benches in the greasy spoon and laughed and laughed and laughed together.

John walked Rose back to her flat and hugged her in the new dawn light. It wasn't just any hug, though; he held her tight, his arms around her waist instead of her shoulders, his scruffy cheek pressed to hers. He hugged her earnestly and unabashedly, like he never wanted to let her go again. He hugged her in a way that was better than any kiss. She decided in that moment that she loved him.

"Let's meet for dinner," she suggested.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Somewhere _proper_. My treat."

"Come get me at six?" she asked hopefully, snuggling into his embrace.

"Mmhm." John closed his eyes and smiled, then blinked his eyes open again and pulled away. "Okay, I'll see you tonight, then." He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what exactly to do right now. Rose smiled and kissed his cheek before disappearing into her flat.

Two weeks later, they got married. It was, they thought, about a week too late.

"Still," Rose said as she cuddled into John's arms in a familiar greasy spoon halfway across the country, "it's better than waiting until we could book a vicar. Why don't people elope more often?"

"Probably because they care what people think," John laughed. He picked some lint off of her white gown and, when he was unable to shake it off of his finger, stuck it to his suit instead. Rose picked it off and flicked it easily away.

"Do they? How boring."

It was this same kind of logic which led them to buy an old double-decker bus as their first home. It was a beautiful old thing, really, even if they did have to spend the first few nights sleeping curled up in the seats. After that, they managed to wrestle enough of the seats out of the top floor to fit a bed big enough for two. Rose hung curtains in every window upstairs and they stuck battery-powered push lamps on the ceiling. They painted the entire bus blue, inside and outside. It wasn't perfect, but it was home; they loved it. They found that it was all they really needed.

"Rose, let's drive to a different spot every day!" John said, grinning at her from the driver's seat. "We don't ever have to stay still! We can go _anywhere_ we want! We can go to the continent if we want to! How brilliant would that be? We can tour all of Europe, and then drive into Asia and tour that too!"

"Let's start with England," Rose said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "We'll go to Europe after I tell my mum I married a man fifteen years older than me."

John pulled her into his arms and rested his forehead on hers. "And we'll go as fast as we possibly can, too," he agreed. "How about I have the old girl out here running while you go in and talk to her?" He patted the dashboard affectionately.

"Oh, you coward," she teased, kissing his cheek.

"Your mum _terrifies _me_,_" he said.

"You only met her the one time."

"Exactly! And there's a reason I ran away!"

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><p>The day he held their daughter for the fifth time was the day he first mentioned dying.<p>

"When I die," he mused, staring at the tiny, sleeping face in awe. "I want to die in that forest, you know the one? Where we said 'I love you' for the first time."

"What's this dying talk?" she asked, cuddling into his side. John cradled the infant in one arm and wrapped the other around his wife. The little girl was wearing a little white dress made out of pieces of Rose's cheap wedding gown. Rose thought that her daughter wore it better; John thought that dress must have some magical way of making girls into the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"I'm not planning on it being soon. I was just thinking out loud."

"You're a big old romantic, aren't you? What else?" she teased, "Do you want me to spread your ashes with the breath from the last kiss I'll ever blow?"

John blinked at her. "That'd be nice, yeah, now that you mention it. Assuming I die before you. I'm rather hoping we'll kick it together."

"Yeah, me too. We do everything else together. But let's put it off for a while, yeah? How does another – oh, I don't know, eighty years? How does eighty years sound?"

"Like it won't be long enough for me to show you how much I love you, but I'll take it." They sat quietly and contentedly until John asked, "If you could have any two wishes, what would you wish for?"

Rose shrugged, looking around their old bus bedroom as if looking for ideas. "I don't know. I guess… living forever with you would be nice."

"You don't have a second wish?" he teased.

"I dunno, I think one is enough. We don't need anything complicated."

"Rose Tyler," he declared, because he loved the way it sounded even though she was a Smith now, "I love you dearly. Love and life – those sound like _brilliant_ wishes."

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><p>Jackie Tyler was furious at their hasty marriage and their ridiculously impractical choices. She thought John had seduced her poor, innocent daughter, and perhaps kidnapped her until she faked love to save herself.<p>

Jack Harkness teased John mercilessly about how quickly he'd fallen in love. He said it wouldn't last, that there was no way it _could_ last, but at least after this John wouldn't hesitate to go clubbing.

Her family and his friends condemned them both, but John and Rose just laughed in the face of their judgment. They were in love and nothing could take that away from them. It didn't matter that their house was a drafty old double decker. It didn't matter that they were poorer than church mice or that they had a fifteen year gap between them. It didn't matter that John had no sense of direction and, more often than not, got them hopelessly lost for days on end. They had each other, they had their daughter, and they had their big, blue bus. They had love and they had life and that was all they would ever need.

_And may your lives be long.  
>And may your wishes all be simple.<br>And may your hearts stay strong._


End file.
